


One Shot Collection

by confusedrambler



Series: SaD May Challenge [1]
Category: The Amazing Spider-Man (Movies - Webb), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: A Little of Everything to be Honest, Cross-Posted on FanFiction.Net, F/M, Family, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Relationships, May contain AU 'shots, Mostly Gen, One Shot Collection, Pranks and Practical Jokes, Spoilers & Warnings in Author's Note
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-29
Updated: 2015-07-12
Packaged: 2018-02-15 07:16:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 15,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2220318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/confusedrambler/pseuds/confusedrambler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One-shots and drabbles with the Avengers- guest starring Peter Parker, Agent Coulson and probably more. Being updated with SaD May 2015 works. Titles and word counts of 'shots/drabbles to be posted this year are listed below.</p><p>Mayday. 422 words.<br/>Story Time. 652 words.<br/>The Diplomatic Solution. 640 words.<br/>Lists. 84 words.<br/>A Lie. 100 words.<br/>A Memory. 254 words.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. We'll be in touch.

**Author's Note:**

> No warnings for this shot.  
> Slight spoilers for TASM.

                “Take a seat. An agent will be with you shortly.”

                Peter nodded jerkily and eased into a seat facing the door. He didn’t know what kind of organization SHIELD was and he had no idea how much they knew about him, but he didn’t plan on giving away anything if he could help it. If he’d learned anything in the past year of being a solo superhero, he’d learned to keep his head down.

                He shifted uneasily, eyes darting to the mirror on the wall as the hair on the back of his neck prickled. He forced himself to relax and folded his arms behind his head, taking care not to tug on his mask too much. They could try and psych him out if they wanted. He wasn’t gonna play along. It was too important to keep Aunt May and Gwen safe, especially after the promise he’d made Gwen’s father.

                Peter made himself comfortable as seconds lengthened into minutes, propping his feet on the table and leaning back to look at the ceiling while whistling a show tune. Apparently being a superhero didn’t change the fact that the phrase _be with you shortly_ was the equivalent of a cable company saying they’d be there in an hour. He’d nearly run out of peppy tunes to whistle by the time the door finally opened. When the too-calm balding guy that Peter had seen staking out the Captain America merch at every Convention he’d ever been to walked through the door, he almost fell out of his chair.

                “You!”

                The guy was wearing a suit and tie like always, but this time, instead of having his arms full of trading cards and action figures, he carried a slim, official looking folder. The guy paused and shut the door carefully, not taking his eyes off of Peter. And Peter was kicking himself because if he recognized that guy, the guy might be able to recognize _him_ and this was a crap time to open his big mouth, but he should really think of something else to say before--. The other guy beat him to it with his stupid unflappable attitude.

                “Well, I was me the last time I checked. But it does beg the question of how you know me and who you think I am.”

                “Know you? I don’t know you. I don’t even know your name. How could I possibly-“ Peter cleared his throat nervously. “I mean… I could ask you the same question.”

                The agent smiled placidly and took a seat across from the costumed teenager.

                “Right. Then allow me to introduce myself. I’m Special Agent Phil Coulson. I work for SHIELD, the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division. We’ve had our eyes on you for some time now, but as a result of certain…events we’ve been delayed in contacting you until now.”

                Peter clenched his fists, trying to remember how to breathe. Maybe he could make it past this guy and all the other guys and make it back to Aunt May and Gwen and hide them somewhere until everything blew over and it would all be okay and—

                Agent Coulson opened the folder, taking out a few pictures and sliding them across the table.

                “Interestingly enough, despite the incident with Dr. Connors three months ago, the only intel we’ve collected on Spider-Man consists of these stills, a noted fondness of sarcasm, and the knowledge that there is a connection between you and Oscorp. Honestly, our agents haven’t been able to find much more than what’s already open speculation in the media.”

                Peter glanced at the pictures, low-quality security stills that obscured his face and some of the action shots he’d sold to the Bugle himself. His heart was still thudding in his chest, but at least he could breathe again. Maybe he actually _could_ get out of this with his identity still intact.

                “I value my privacy, Agent. Is that a crime?”

                The older man shrugged and laced his fingers together.

                “No. But it does make for interesting conversation, wouldn’t you agree? Ultimately, your identity is your business until your behavior begins to reflect poor choices. I’m here to inform you that if and when that moment comes, SHIELD will be ready to step in. The truth is that you’ve only had our passing interest since the Portal Incident two months ago. Since then, SHIELD has been more concerned with damage control and future preventative measures than a lone vigilante in spandex, and our agents have been somewhat…lax in their investigation. But the _moment_ you present a threat to the American people our best agents will come crashing into your life so fast your head will spin.”

                Peter slid the pictures back across the table, reminding himself that there was absolutely no way the agent could know exactly how scared he was.

                “So, what, you just brought me here to threaten me?”

                “Consider it a friendly warning.”

                “ _Right_. Then can I leave now? Places to go, people to save, all that jazz.”

                Agent Coulson smiled in a way that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

                “Of course. We’ll be in touch.”


	2. Steve Goes Shopping.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Otherwise titled, "The Prank War Begins."
> 
> Prompt: Use the words 'musky' and 'vermillion' before you hit 250 words.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: None  
> Spoilers: None

                “Steve, just pick something already! I want to get this done before Pepper gets back.”

                “Look, if we’re going to do this, we’re going to do it right.”

                Clint groaned and made an attempt to check his wristwatch around the pile of makeup Steve had loaded him down with. Steve just rolled his eyes and kept flicking through the color pallets, humming absentmindedly to himself. Things certainly had changed since the war. He’d never thought about it before, but beauty products had been pretty limited in his day. Seeing so many different hues and styles of available to the public now made the artist in him absolutely giddy.

                Truth be told, when Clint had told the rest of the team about his plans for Tony he’d pretty much fallen over himself to get in on the action. Tony had been up for over 72 hours on some sort of engineering binge and he’d been absolutely insufferable after the first 24. Dr. Banner had actually refused to leave his room since Tuesday night for fear that one of Tony’s new “upgrades” might malfunction and set him off.

                So when Tony had finally passed out at the breakfast nook while “improving” the coffee maker, all of the Avengers had been more than willing to teach him a lesson. This had resulted in him and Clint taking a trip to the local beauty shop while Natasha perused the town for a suitable wig and Dr. Banner kept watch back at the Tower so Thor could distract Pepper.

                Steve pursed his lips and finally chose the rest of his arsenal, passing up shades like “Vermillion Passion” and “Musky Orchid” in favor of several variations of rich brown, bronze, and gold. He shoved another handful of palettes into Clint’s arms and added several brushes and applicators for good measure.

                “There. I think that should do it.”

                “J-sus, you sure you don’t need anything else? I think you forgot to grab the kitchen sink.”

                Steve grinned and shrugged, not bothering to try and explain; the archer would be able to see for himself soon enough. A hasty checkout and several odd looks later, the pair met up with Natasha outside of Stark Tower.

                “You get the goods?”

                Clint smirked and lifted the bag of cosmetics dangling from his fingers.

                “Of course. You?”

                Tasha smiled thinly and gestured to her own bag.

                “Not my style, but I think Tony would approve.”

                Steve chuckled and cracked his knuckles, a mischievous glint in his eye that almost made the agents reconsider the wisdom of beginning what would undoubtedly escalate into a full-out prank war.

                Almost.


	3. The Unexpected Guest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Your protagonist opens the door and finds an unexpected guest–a friend from high school who hasn't been heard from in many years. As your protagonist and friend sit in the kitchen, the friend reminisces about the old days…and stirs up trouble by recalling some unhappy teen moments, too.
> 
> (Well, that's the prompt I was given.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Some violence  
> Spoilers: N/A

Malibu was good. Like,  _obscenely_  good. Having the freedom to stretch out on the couch or stay up all night to work on pet projects was heaven and that didn't even touch on all the alone time he was spending with Pepper. Even better, he didn't have to keep looking over his shoulder wondering when the team was going to try their luck with another piss poor prank since they were all either at some super-secret SHIELD conference in LA or back at the Tower.

(Okay, so he'd actually looked pretty hot, but they could have at  _least_  left his beard alone. He probably could have pulled off the bearded lady look no sweat.)

So, while Pepper was at work, Tony did what any self-respecting billionaire playboy philanthropist in a committed relationship would do and went on another engineering binge before crashing on the couch half-naked and covered in grease. He vaguely remembered silencing JARVIS right before passing out to avoid all those pesky alarms and phone calls. He probably wouldn't have woken up for them in the first place, but he hadn't seen any point in risking it.

Now that he was waking up to a handgun in his face and a  _ridiculous_  headache, he was kind of regretting the whole thing. And then he realized who was at the other end of the gun and  _really_  regretted it.

"Tony, Tony, Tony. We've  _got_  to stop meeting like this."

Tony forced a bright smile onto his face, hands already shifting into a placating position.

"Obie, buddy, how ya been? It's been ages."

He was even broader than Tony remembered, prison muscle thickening his build until he could have matched Thor in girth. These days he wore his hair shaved close and his beard was more ragged than Tony had ever seen it. The ill-fitting standard issue uniform of a convict didn't do him any favors either. But the shadow of cold, calculated rage in his eyes was all too familiar.

"Three years, seven months, and 16 days. But who's counting?"

Tony swallowed and laughed nervously, eyes darting surreptitiously around the room for his tracking bracelets, a big fat emergency button, or anything else that could help him get out of this mess. He found it in a small script flashing in black and white on the holographic display just behind Stane's head.

_Protocol 32A initiated. EM 21 suggested._

And then he could breathe again; thank G-d he'd only  _muted_  JARVIS. Now all he had to do was hang tough until the cavalry arrived. No pressure.

"I, uh, wasn't expecting you. What brings you to the neighborhood?"

The larger man smirked and indicated… well,  _everything_  with his free hand.

"Oh, the usual. A mutual acquaintance of ours decided it was time to take a trip "outside" and I tagged along. I've heard you've been doing pretty well for yourself, Tony. Seems you got rid of that hunk-of-junk butler of yours, too. I never imagined you'd still be so stupid after all this time, but "gift horses," eh Tony?"

Tony gritted his teeth and forced himself to sound as unaffected as before.

"Yeah. Guess some things never change. But what are you really here for, Stane? We both know you're not just dropping in on an old  _friend_."

Stane shrugged, still keeping the enormous handgun trained on Tony's upper torso.

"Like I said. I heard the golden goose laid a few more eggs while I was away. I'm here to collect. And nothing personal Tony, but we both know you can be one paranoid little bastard when it comes to your projects. So this is me, asking nicely. Pay up or pay the piper."

Tony grinned.

"Sorry, Chain Gang; that's just not gonna happen."

Stane's cutting smile widened into what Tony could only call a leer.

"I was hoping you'd say that."

Stane swung the gun up and for the next few seconds Tony was only distantly aware of anything but the overwhelming sensation of breathtaking, mind-numbing, ever-spreading  _pain_. The room finally came back into focus and he pressed his shaking left hand against the dampening patch on the opposite side of his chest, carefully  _not_  looking down because this was getting too close to Afghanistan for comfort. He managed a shaky grin in Stane's direction all the same.

"N-nice try, but the answer's st-still no."

Then Stane started ranting again only at this point Tony really couldn't care less and the text on the holographic windows was flashing red now, so maybe he should actually try to read the thing. After a few seconds of trying to piece the letters together, Tony blinked and grimaced.

_Extraction imminent. EM 1 advised._

Well. This was gonna suck. Stane was still pacing and waving that  _gun_  around, so while his back was turned Tony did the only thing he could do: suck in a breath and throw himself off the couch and onto the floor, instinctively curling into a ball. Despite his precautions, the landing jarred his injured shoulder and his vision went white.

By the time the white retreated to the edges of his vision and the rest of the world came back into focus, it was all over but the shouting. Widow and Hawkeye had Stane under control and Spangles was crouched next to him with a distinctly  _worried_  cast to his face. Tony promptly decided they had everything under control…and then he passed out.


	4. The Aftermath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Setting the Scene-- A Story in a Hospital.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Mention of past violence, injury.  
> Spoilers: None

Tony wrinkled his nose and groaned loudly, burying the side of his face into the stiff hospital pillow.

"I'm done for. Please, save yourself. Keep the kids safe and leave me alone to  _die_."

Steve's mouth tightened and he flipped to a new page in his sketchbook, pencil stuck behind his ear.

"Lay off, Tony."

Tony lifted his head up far enough to glare at the Super Soldier.

"I think I'm entitled to a little sympathy here! In case you've forgotten, I've been  _shot_."

Steve sighed, sketching an outline of the view from the hospital window—a small herb garden with whimsical sculptures placed every few feet—with a few brief strokes.

"Yes, I know. It's kind of hard to forget when you've been reminding me about it every five minutes."

Tony huffed and fiddled with the thick padding covering the area between his right shoulder and the arc reactor. Steve leaned forward and smacked his hand away without so much as a glance up.

"Don't. The doctors said that if you behave you'll be moved out of the ICU tonight, remember?"

"Can't I just go back to the Tower? We've got a whole med bay there and—"

" _Don't_."

Tony stuck his tongue out and went back to sulking. Steve had been acting weird all day and Tony was determined to force him into making the next move. It took several minutes, but eventually the soldier replaced the pencil behind his ear and flipped the sketchbook closed. Instead of sketching, Steve chose to spend the next five minutes watching Tony shred a napkin into smaller and smaller pieces. Tony knew, of course, but he didn't say anything. He kept shredding until his lap was covered in fake snow. When Steve finally spoke, it was much softer than his normal tone. Less hard-nosed soldier, more scared twenty-something.

"You could have died."

Eyebrows raised, Tony took the time to really  _look_  at the blond for the first time since he'd gotten out of surgery; he didn't like what he saw. Cap looked…wrong. His skin was washed-out, the only color found in the purpling skin underneath his eyes. There was a hollowness to his cheeks that didn't fit the robust image that had always been Captain America in Tony's mind and he immediately decided that they were both eating a pile of cheeseburgers for dinner.

"Cap, people don't usually die of injuries like this these days. It's not exactly  _fun_ , but it could have been a lot worse. That bullet could have gone clean through or struck bone. Instead it was close enough to this thing," Tony tapped the reactor, "that it got stopped pretty quick; there's some muscle damage and it hurts to breathe, but I got used to that sort of thing a long time ago. I was only messing around earlier, so you can stop beating yourself up about it. I'm fine. You can go home or whatever. I don't care."

Steve gave him that kicked puppy look—the one that made Tony feel like a complete bastard for even looking at the guy. Tony sighed and ran a hand through his hair.

"Look, it's not that I don't  _want_  you here. I just know you've got better things to do and, like I said, I'll be fine. A little more rest and some therapy and I'll be good as new. There's no reason for you to mope around here all day."

"That's not the point, Tony."

"Then what  _is_  the point?"

"I—it's nothing. Just forget about it."

Steve scooped up his sketchbook and hurried out of the room, brushing past Pepper on the way out. Tony greeted her with a tight smile, noting the all too familiar signs of a stressed out Pepper Potts: the spicy yet calming blend of lavender, chamomile, and mint—a clinging odor from a calming tea she drank religiously when worried; the hint of gray underneath her eyes—buried expertly under makeup, but he'd gotten a lot of practice at looking past masks; the crease between her eyebrows; the chapped lips; the way she'd been in the room with him for a full minute and a half now and still hadn't looked him in the eye. He broke the awkward silence, stomach churning with the knowledge that this was too familiar and too strange all at once and he wanted it to  _stop_.

"Hey Pep. So, the doc says I'm gonna be moved to a regular room tonight and I was thinking we should celebrate. And by celebrate, I mean you should sneak in a sack of cheeseburgers and watch me eat them all."

She frowned disapprovingly and sat on the side of his bed, smoothing back the hair from his face.

"I don't think that's a good idea, Tony. I'm sure they have you on that diet for a reason."

He made a face and captured her hand in his, skimming his thumb across her knuckles and marveling at the softness of her skin compared to his.

"You're all so  _serious_  lately. A couple of cheeseburgers won't kill me, Pep."

She stiffened and he swore internally. She lay down and fitted herself to him, lips pressed against his uninjured shoulder, breath warming his skin.

"Please don't say that. It just makes this harder."

"I know. I'm sorry."

"I was so scared, Tony. When Steve called and said you'd been shot I just… G-d, I was so  _worried_. And then the surgery took so much longer than it was supposed to and you didn't wake up and I was so  _scared_."

His throat tightened. Swallowing harshly, he planted a kiss against her forehead, stubbornly ignoring the way the movement pulled at his injury and wrapped his other arm around her. He closed his eyes, lips barely brushing against her skin, close enough that he could taste her.

"It's okay. I'm okay. I'm not gonna leave you, Pep. We're okay, I promise."

They stayed like that for almost an hour, Pepper sniffling in his arms and Tony breathing her in until he forgot what it was to take a breath without her. But eventually the tears stopped and the morphine was running out and it was just too uncomfortable to stay in that position any longer. He rolled flat onto his back with a sigh as Pepper swiped away the last of her tears with the back of her hand. She cleared her throat and sat up, eyes red and hands shaky, but feeling better than she had ever since she'd heard of the incident.

"The others were worried, too. I haven't heard him—Steve—sound that upset before. Natasha and Clint said to let you know they'll be keeping an eye out for you. And Bruce wanted you to know that he wants to come by later; once he knows for sure he's not going to have an 'accident.'"

Tony patted her hand tiredly, smiling up at the woman he swore was an angel in disguise.

"Good. I'd like to see them. But first…" He levered himself up with a groan, ignoring Pepper's protests to let his legs hang off the side of the bed. "Tell Cap to get in here; I know he's still lurking out in the hall."

Her mouth twisted, but she bustled out of the room. Steve ducked in soon afterwards, wary and faintly embarrassed.

"Tony? I—"

Tony held up a hand to quiet the other man and carefully stood.

"Save it, Cap. I owe you an apology. I was being a jerk earlier and you didn't deserve that. So this is me—apologizing." He held out his left hand with a smirk, wiggling his fingers until Steve grasped his hand. "And this is me saying thanks. You guys really saved my neck back there. I won't be able to return the favor for a while, but you can tell the others that you'll all be getting a little surprise once I get back in the 'shop. Scout's honor."

Steve's unsure smile widened into a full grin and a full-bellied laugh slipped past his guard.

"Stark, I don't believe you were ever a boy scout."

Tony returned the grin and slipped his hand out of Steve's, gingerly lowering himself back onto the bed.

"You'd be right. But it's the principle of the thing, right?"

"Sure, Tony. Whatever you say." Steve hesitated for a moment before patting Tony awkwardly on his left shoulder, well away from the thick bandage. "I'm just glad we got there in time."

"Yeah. Me too."

"Hey Tony? From now on, try not to get shot."

"Sure, Cap. Whatever you say."


	5. Decoration Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "Musical Cues: Fanfare for the Common Man by Aaron Copland" and "Write a Holiday Story."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: None  
> Spoilers: None

When Steve woke up that morning, he knew the Tower was…different. Everything seemed more muted; subdued in a way that was the antithesis of everything Tony Stark. The lights on his floor were dimmed, and black and white photographs were tucked away in every corner—pictures that were almost eerily familiar, but that he'd never seen before.

And the Tower was never this quiet. If Tony wasn't blasting rock music throughout the building, the television was often playing or the percussive notes of combat training echoed through the vents. But today there wasn't so much as a whisper. It made him nervous.

"JARVIS," he whispered. "What's going on?"

"Your presence is requested on the main floor, Captain. A change in attire is recommended."

Steve's eyebrows knit together.

"Why? And change into what?"

"My apologies, sir; I am not permitted to reveal that information at this time. It has been indicated that formal dress would be most appropriate on this occasion."

Mystified, Steve changed into a charcoal gray suit. Whatever was going on, it probably wasn't combative in nature and he didn't  _think_  it had anything to do with SHIELD since he couldn't hear Director Fury shouting at Tony anywhere.

When he reached the main floor he was surprised to see the entire team waiting on him, somber in their own suits. Tony waved and checked his wristwatch.

"Good, you're up. Right on schedule. Okay team, let's move out."

Clint and Natasha were the first out the door, heads together and talking quietly. Thor followed with Dr. Banner, and Steve realized how odd it was that they were wearing suits as well.

"What's going on?"

Tony raised an eyebrow.

"It's a surprise. Don't tell me you forgot today was a holiday? And I was worried you wouldn't want to come."

Steve rifled through his memory, trying to remember what was being celebrated. When he finally did it felt like he'd taken a punch to the gut.

"Decoration Day."

Tony cocked his head to the side.

"If by that you mean  _Memorial_  Day, then yeah. It's your first since being back, right?"

Steve's mouth tightened and he blinked rapidly.

"Yeah. I… think I might want to just spend today alone, Tony."

Tony shrugged and began towing the other man towards the door, ignoring his faint protests.

"See, that's we thought you'd say. And  _then_  we decided that we weren't gonna let you mope around by yourself. So we're taking a trip and you can mope around with  _us_  instead."

Steve's shoulders slumped and he allowed Tony to bundle him into the waiting car.

"Where are we going then?"

Tony shut the door without answering and hopped into the driver's seat. Clint answered instead, absently fiddling with his tie.

"Airport. Then DC."

Steve grunted and fell back into the seat, letting himself sink into thoughts of the war, ignoring the subdued conversations around him. Too soon but not soon enough, Natasha nudged his knee with hers, making him jerk in surprise.

They were the only two left in the car. She smiled and looped a small purse over her shoulder, ducking out without saying a word. He followed, trailing after her and climbing the steps to the plane in a daze. Just as he was settling into a beige couch at the rear of the plane, Tony strode out of the cockpit and plopped himself on the other cushion.

He didn't say anything until after Clint had already completed the takeoff procedures, messing around with one of the tablets he made a habit of stashing everywhere instead. Steve didn't mind. He was just…there. Half listening to Natasha and Bruce explain Dec— _Memorial_  Day and the traditions that came with it to Thor, half lost in his memory. Eventually the plane levelled off and Tony stood with satisfaction.

"Here." He pushed the tablet into Steve's hands. "Took us a while to find some of those, but we managed."

Steve blinked in confusion and Tony smirked before sauntering off to join in the more lively conversation across the cabin. Steve shook his head and began examining the tablet, breath catching in his throat. Somehow, Tony had managed to dig up photographs of his old platoon. Steve looked through picture after picture, a slow smile growing on his face.

That was the night Morita had shown them how to sew patches onto their clothes—the right way. In this one, they'd been writing letters home and arguing over how to spell 'embarrassment.' And that was the time he'd been on kitchen duty and burned the soup. And here was a candid shot of them all while Bucky led them to sing Happy Birthday to their youngest troop.

Steve blinked rapidly, placing the tablet on the couch and scrubbing at his face with both hands. Tony couldn't have known it, but the day after that picture was taken, the kid had stepped on a landmine. He took a shuddering breath and picked up the tablet again, immersing himself in the memories until he'd seen every photograph there.

He cleared his throat and approached the others, sliding into one of the spinning chairs Tony had installed. They had quieted expectantly at his approach, all regarding him with varying degrees of curiosity.

"I just wanted to say thanks for the pictures. They were… I appreciate it."

Tony shrugged.

"No problem. Barton and Romanoff helped. Took a while to go through Pop's collection, but we picked out the ones with you or the Commandos in them."

"There's more?"

"Yeah, but we didn't really recognize anyone. Didn't know if they'd interest you or not."

"I'd like to see them."

"Sure. It'll have to wait 'til we get back to New York though. I only uploaded those to JARVIS. All the rest are still locked up back home."

There was a beat of silence and then Thor was gesturing at the tablet.

"I am most curious, my friend. Perhaps you would share the tales behind these images, Captain?"

Steve hesitated before nodding. He flipped through the images before settling on just starting at the beginning and going through the end.

"This was taken right after we rescued my best friend Bucky from the Nazis. You can't really see, but that's me, that's Bucky, and that's Dum Dum, Gabe, Jim, Monty, and Jacques. We were known as the Howling Commandos." A wistful smile stole across his face. "It's funny, right after this picture was taken, the boys decided to celebrate by whipping up a pot of instant coffee. Now don't ask me why, but somebody thought it'd be a good idea to put Bucky in charge of watching the pot and…"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Do not stand at my grave and weep  
> I am not there. I do not sleep.  
> I am a thousand winds that blow.  
> I am the diamond glints on snow.  
> I am the sunlight on ripened grain.  
> I am the gentle autumn rain.  
> When you awaken in the morning's hush  
> I am the swift uplifting rush  
> Of quiet birds in circled flight.  
> I am the soft stars that shine at night.  
> Do not stand at my grave and cry;  
> I am not there. I did not die."
> 
> Mary Elizabeth Frye


	6. Lessons and Liars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "Magnetic Words: Use inspiration from a magnetic poetry set to create your story."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: None  
> Spoilers: Captain America: The Winter Soldier

 

The Winter Soldier traced each letter with care and ignored the angry voices that bled through the walls. It wasn't his place to know what they were talking about. It never was unless they spoke directly to him. He wasn't to speak unless spoken to either. Those were some of the very first lessons he'd learned.

The Captain often said that there was no need to obey those rules anymore. The Winter Soldier did not agree. A failure to follow such simplistic orders was ample excuse for punishment. He didn't plan on giving these SHIELD men any further opportunity for that; he'd had enough punishment for a lifetime.

The Winter Soldier pressed his lips together and ran his fingers over the word he'd been tracing for over an hour now.

 _Prisoner_.

Out of all the words stuck to the metal siding in this strange kitchen, this one haunted him the most.

He didn't know why it should.

"Bucky? What've you got there?"

The Captain and the one known as Tony had stopped their shouting and entered the room while he was distracted. The Winter Soldier analyzed the situation, taking in the tired slump of the Captain's shoulders and the expression somewhere between challenge and curiosity on Tony's face. A minor threat, but acceptable for now. The Captain sighed and approached the Soldier, placing a firm hand on his shoulder.

"Bucky, whatever it is, leave it alone. We're leaving."

He intended to do just as the Captain wished, had already moved a step towards the door when that  _word_  ensnared him again. He didn't know why it should have such power over him. Why that specific arrangement of letters could draw his sight, draw his touch so easily.

He felt more than heard the Captain leaning around him to see what caught his attention so fully. Despite the growing awareness that a punishment would be dealt soon, he couldn't stop himself from reaching out and tracing the letters one last time. He stiffened when the Captain swore softly under his breath and tore his fingers away as if the word had the power to scald. The Captain's face creased with what the Winter Soldier could only name as bitter sadness.

"Bucky... G-d, I'm sorry. Are you okay?"

The Winter Soldier glanced back at the offending word before meeting the Capitan's eyes again.

"I'm fine, Captain. I apologize for the delay."

The Winter Soldier abruptly pushed past the two men but stopped just short of the door, willfully ignoring the confusion overtaking Tony's face and the unpleasant mixture of grief and hurt that crumpled the Captain's features.

"Bucky" might have meant something to the Captain once upon a time, might have been the Soldier's designation at a time long past, and the word 'prisoner' might have once meant something to them both. But the Winter Soldier refused to let that affect him. He'd wouldn't allow himself to get attached to any name, any persona. "Bucky" was no one and nothing to him.

(He'd always been a bad liar.)


	7. Couch Psychology

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "Ending Line: I clicked off the safety, swearing that if she showed her face here today, my room would be the last one she ever entered."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Mentions of past violence and injury.  
> Spoilers: Captain America: The Winter Soldier

Tony popped another strawberry into his mouth and rapidly finished the command inputs for the next trial run, pushing himself away from the desk with a satisfied air. The first trials for the camouflaging panels had been pretty buggy, even by his standards.

Sure, the material was effective in breaking up the outline of the suit and its mirrored surface reduced the chance of anyone spotting him, but the power requirements were unsustainable. Besides, the panels themselves reacted poorly to tensile stresses, showing a much lower threshold than the other alloys that made up the suits.

Tony ran a hand through his hair and checked the parameters of Trial 2 again. He  _thought_  that the next alloy he was testing, a silver-heavy variation of electrum, might solve some of the power issues  _and_  result in greater ductility, but it would be several hours before all the tests he'd ordered would be completed. Tony yawned and stretched, only now realizing how late it actually was.

"Pepper's gonna kill me; I was supposed to head up hours ago. JARVIS, buddy, go ahead and start the tests. I'm gonna catch some shut-eye, but I think we're on to something with this batch."

"As you wish, Sir."

Tony shuffled into the elevator and punched the button for his floor. Although, he thought with a smirk, he couldn't really call it  _his_  floor anymore; most of the Avengers tended to gravitate there during their free time. Something about having a better entertainment setup than the other floors. Still, he was surprised to see Capsicle's sidekick sitting quietly at the bar with a mug of what had to be some sort of tea since  _someone_  had convinced JARVIS to limit everyone's access to caffeine and alcohol except during emergencies. (Tony still couldn't figure out  _how_  because when he asked JARVIS about it he'd started spouting off some hokey health protocol that Tony swore he'd never even  _heard_  of, much less installed in his butler. He suspected Bruce had something to do with it since he'd been especially unsympathetic, but he hadn't found any proof…yet.)

"Hey. What are you still doing up?"

Barnes shrugged and took a sip from his mug, the circles under his eyes not quite as bad as they had been but still noticeable.

"Couldn't sleep."

Tony grunted and leaned against a counter.

"Wouldn't have anything to do with that arm, would it?"

Barnes' expression closed and he didn't answer, choosing to take another gulp of what smelled like chamomile tea with milk and honey. Tony shrugged and busied himself with making a tall glass of milk.

"Y'know…back when I first got my reactor installed, I had trouble sleeping all the time. Still do, actually. And I know for a fact that Spangles and everyone else on the team may  _seem_  like they have their crap together, but it's just an act. There's no shame in it; it is what it is. So do yourself a favor and—this is gonna sound crazy, but trust me on this—do yourself a favor and go talk to Bruce tomorrow. That big leather couch in the lounge on his floor is the best in the building. You just sit there and look pitiful and he'll come out tomorrow morning and he'll say something and you just start talking and don't stop."

Barnes looked torn between intrigue and confusion.

"I was told never to surprise Dr. Banner. And  _why_  would I want to speak with him about… _that_?"

Tony grinned and clapped the other man on the shoulder.

"He won't mind. I do it all the time. It's called  _therapy_  Bucky-boy and it works wonders, I swear. Besides, Bruce is an awesome listener—he never shares a secret that's not his and he's way too polite to just leave."

Tony shuffled towards his bedroom backwards, still talking as he went, glass of milk in hand.

"Just, uh, don't worry about it if he sort of closes his eyes for a while or starts snoring or something. That's, uh, that's how he shows that he's really  _listening_ , y'know? Good luck, Buck!"

And with a wink and a chuckle, Tony ducked into his room for the night.

The next morning found Tony in his workshop, sniggering to himself as he waited for the show to begin. Sure enough, Bruce stumbled into the lounge right on schedule and just  _stopped_ when he noticed Barnes perched on the edge of The Couch. Tony turned up the volume on the feed and did his best to stifle his giggles as Bruce started looking around the room, as if he thought the rest of the team would be hiding behind the armchairs.

"Uh… it's James, right? Can I help you?"

And that was all the invitation Barnes needed to launch into a play by play of absolutely everything he'd remembered about his years as the Winter Soldier. Tony paused the feed just as Bruce's expression morphed from confusion to pop-eyed surprise and howled with mirth. Eventually he managed to regain control of himself, sighing and still grinning wide enough that his cheeks ached.

"My  _G-d_  that felt good. Alright, JARVIS, let's get back to work. Start playing the feed live, but keep the volume at minimum. I just want to keep an eye on 'em, make sure nothing goes wrong."

"As you wish, Sir. Might I interest you in last night's trial results?"

"Sure, baby. Lay it on me."

An hour passed and Tony was elbow deep installing the panels on his newest suit when JARVIS cut in.

"Sir, you have received a text from Dr. Banner."

"Read it out."

" _I was running time-sensitive trials in the labs today._ "

Tony smirked.

"JARVIS respond: 'I'll make it up to you. Besides, it's time you got more involved with the newbies. P.S. I'm reprogramming JARVIS just in case you get any more funny ideas about my caffeine intake.' End response."

"Message sent."

Tony set back to work, tunelessly humming to himself as he waited for Bruce's reply.

"Dr. Banner's response has arrived."

"Go for it, J."

" _You'd better. And nice try, but Ms. Potts likes me more than you and she has the override. Check and mate._ "

Tony swore loudly, already trying to figure out how to reprogram JARVIS and lock Pepper out of the program without her knowing about it and/or killing him. Upstairs, Bruce flipped his phone shut and returned his full attention to the Ex Winter Soldier.

"…Then I clicked off the safety, swearing that if she showed her face here today, my room would be the last one she ever entered and…"


	8. Alien Politics 101

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "Character Counts. Everything hinges on a character's desire."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Past Character Death, Misogyny  
> Spoilers: Thor: DW

"Man of Iron, a word, if you will."

"Sure, Point Break. Whatcha got for me?"

Thor grimaced and shifted uneasily.

"It is a matter of some delicacy."

The smaller man looked at him quizzically and absentmindedly waved Dummy away from the dismantled armor laid out in front of him.

"Okaay; JARVIS, no interruptions. Alright Thor, lay it on me."

By now Thor was familiar enough with the mortals' strange phrases to take the statement in stride.

"I thank you. You are aware of the recent happenings in Asgard?"

Tony's face softened, replacing wary curiosity with poorly concealed compassion and understanding.

"Yeah. We think we know most of what happened. Dr. Foster reported back to SHIELD, so we know about Malekith and the Aether." Tony paused and looked almost ashamed. "We, uh, we heard about your Mom, too. And what Lo—what your brother did. We've been trying to figure out how to bring it up, but none of us are very good with that sort of thing. Sorry. We didn't know how Asgardians deal with this and we just…"

Thor smiled softly, the ghost of deep sorrow lurking behind his eyes.

"Your concern is appreciated Sir Tony, but unnecessary. The dead have been avenged and await us in Valhalla. It is a great burden and I know not if this shadow of grief will ever truly leave my heart, but that is ever the way of things. No, I wished to inquire about your awareness of my own actions."

Tony leaned back, an expression of contemplation overtaking his features.

"I'm guessing you're talking about whatever happened  _after_  you went back to Asgard. Honestly? We've got nothing and it's driving Fury nuts."

Thor nodded, a slight frown pulling at his mouth.

"As I thought. The truth of the matter is that I have relinquished my claim to the throne. Perhaps you can understand the…unique position in which I find myself."

Tony's eyes widened and he bolted upright, hanging on the edge of his seat.

"You're kidding.  _Why_?"

Thor shuffled uncomfortably.

"I find that I detest the very thought of ruling."

Tony raked a hand through his hair and Thor could imagine how his mind must race.

"Okay, I guess I can deal with that. I mean, I handed Stark Industries over to Pepper a while back—granted, I sort of thought I was  _dying,_ but—I get it." Tony paused again with a slight frown. "Um. Don't take this the wrong way, but… did you ever think about who's gonna take the throne now?"

Thor shrugged.

"I know not. Even in all of her history Asgard has not faced such a decision. I presume that rule will fall to one of the High Lords of Asgard, the members of the High Council. They have long coveted the throne. Now it may be theirs if the Norns smile upon them."

Tony groaned in exasperation.

"Oh my G-d. You—Thor, buddy, that was probably one of the worst—that is like the exact  _opposite_  of—." Tony scrubbed his face with his hands. "Okay, let me get this straight. You gave up the throne… and now you're going to let a glorified  _Board of Directors_  fight over the entire planet? I am  _so_  not the guy to deal with this. Scratch that, I actually probably  _am_ , but I am officially not getting involved with alien politics all by my lonesome. JARVIS, where's Romanov? And find Barton while you're at it."

"Agent Romanov will return from her assignment in approximately 2.3 minutes. Agent Barton is currently in his bedroom."

Tony puffed his cheeks and began to clear off a worktable.

"Tell Feathers to wrap it up and get down here, pronto. Notify Romanov as well, but tell them to leave SHIELD out of it for now."

"Certainly, Sir."

Thor furrowed his eyebrows, but began assisting Tony with the clearing of the table.

"I confess that I do not understand your concern, Sir Tony. I did not expect this news to burden you so. I must assure you, all will be well in Asgard. My father—"

Tony interrupted with a cutting gesture.

"Yeah, no offense Thor, but your dad's made some pretty effed up decisions lately. And I don't think you get the real problem here. See, your people are kind of…how should I put this. They're overconfident pr-cks with a serious superiority complex and a tendency to use a 'bigger hammer' approach for  _everything_. And politicians are usually  _the_   _worst_. What happens if someone tries to pull a Loki and conquer another realm?"

Thor swelled in anger but he kept his voice level, even quieter than usual. That in itself should have given pause; the quiet storms were often the most dangerous.

"Despite what you think of my people Man of Iron, I can assure you that Asgard will not bear arms against the other realms unless great offense and harm is offered us. The King is sworn to guard the Nine Realms and to keep the peace. All selfish ambition must be cast aside for the good of the realm. So sworn, so kept."

Tony bristled and squared off against the angry god, neither noticing their small audience.

"I'll say it again: What happens when another Loki takes the throne? What happens when the new king decides that our  _offense_  is breathing? You can't deny that your people are beyond prejudiced because, let's face it, you were too. Still are to a point and that's not exactly  _fine_ , but we're working on it. But now that you're out of the picture,  _God of Thunder_ , who's gonna protect us from the fox you left in charge of the chicken coop?"

Thor hesitated, some of the anger leaking away as he considered the mortal's words, something more like sadness taking its place. While he thought, a slightly ruffled Natasha stepped forward, flanked by Clint and carefully assessing the situation.

"What's going on, Stark?"

Tony folded his arms and leaned against the half cleared table, anger still lighting his eyes.

"We've got a problem. Shakespeare just told me that the throne's in limbo and we got ourselves a snake pit wrangling for control. I, being a perfectly  _sane_  individual, refuse to get involved in another planet's politics alone, so I've decided that  _you two_  are going to help me explain  _why_  this was a bad idea to Goldilocks."

Natasha lifted a delicate eyebrow and seated herself on a nearby stool.

"Well. This could get interesting. Any particular reason why you aren't in line for the throne anymore Thor?"

Thor grumbled unhappily and, sensing that Natasha wouldn't accept his original reasoning, gave a reluctant reply.

"I found myself unworthy and withdrew my claim. In truth, I would not wish the throne even if I were worthy of it."

Clint let out a bark of laughter and seated himself on top of a nearby workbench.

"There's an old saying on our world: 'Those who seek power are not worthy of that power.' Believe it or not Thor, you're actually a pretty good candidate for a king."

Natasha hummed in agreement.

"He's right. You've got the background for it and the people's support, from what I hear. You know what it's like to be powerless, you're fair, you're willing to listen to advice, you  _care._  We've even managed to beat some self-control into you."

Clint cut in with a grin.

"And you're a beast when you want to be. All in all, not a bad résumé."

Thor crossed his arms defensively.

"You make it sound simple, but I fear it is not. Even were I to desire the throne, a claim yielded is a claim lost."

Clint shook his head, absently toying with a screwdriver found nearby.

"Bull. You telling me that there's no chance at  _all_  for you to become King? You're still the Prince, right? That's got to count for something."

Thor shrugged, pacing uneasily around the workspace.

"I am a prince, yes, but in name only. Truly my position is more comparable to that of the Lower Council, a young Lord of minor consequence."

Natasha eyed him sharply.

"And do members of the Lower Council have the same opportunities as the higher ups?"

"In theory, yes. It would be laughable to think any Lower Council member would be crowned, however. Those of the High Council possess more influence, more experience… _more_  than they."

Natasha shrugged, pinning Thor with too-knowing eyes.

"I can work with that. The real question is what are  _you_  planning to do? You don't want to be King. Fine. I can respect that, but let me lay down the facts for you. SHIELD needs Asgard to remain in friendly hands. So does the rest of the Nine Realms—including your own subjects—and in a situation like this, the most ruthless cutthroat is the one that wins the throne. Right now, the only way we can keep that from happening is to put  _you_ in charge. And to be frank, you're a good choice any day of the week. I have no doubt that if you  _do_  become the King of Asgard, you  _will_  keep your oaths above all else. You've never wavered in your responsibilities, not even when they set you against your own brother. So let me rephrase my question: Why don't you want the throne?"

Thor swallowed convulsively, hands clenched tight and throat dry as bone; he could not look away from the Black Widow's gaze.

"You overreact, my friends. The All-Father is not so frail that the throne should pass to a new ruler in your lifetimes. There will be much time to consider an alternative."

Natasha's eyes narrowed and the pit in his stomach deepened.

"Really. Can you honestly say that another forgotten enemy won't show up? Would you be willing to swear on all those lives that the All-Father will survive until another suitable heir is found?"

The words caught in his throat and he tried not to think of the ever-present threat of war with the Jotnar and the growing darkness in the void, moving ever closer. Tried and failed.

The Lady pressed her lips together in a too-thin smile and Thor wondered if this was how the  _ratatoskr_  felt in its trap.

"I see. Then I'll ask one more time, Thor. What's holding you back?"

"Jane," he croaked, hot shame flushing cheeks and neck.

The Widow's hold lessened as her expression softened and he found he could not meet his companions' eyes. Tony was the one to break the dreadful silence.

"Why? I mean, why give up being King for her? Most girls would kill to marry a prince."

Thor worked his throat; his voice, when it came, was hoarse and broke in too many places—he almost did not recognize it as his own.

"Because Asgard would never accept her as their Queen and I—I cannot—Because I have lost everything else and I could not bear to lose her, too."

"Yeah, but did you ask her?"

Thor blinked at the archer, nonplussed. Barton shook his head and pulled his legs up to sit tailor style on the table.

"I'm gonna take that as a no. Rule one, buddy:  _Always_  ask the lady first. I don't care if you're planning to take her out for dinner, get down and dirty, or marry her. If it involves her future, you better  _ask_  her before you start making decisions—even if you  _are_  a prince."

Tony raised his eyebrows and jerked a thumb in Clint's direction.

"He's got a point. Even  _I_  know better than to just do stuff without telling Pepper…most of the time. Usually. Sometimes. Okay, so I've had my moments, but you should  _definitely_  learn from my mistakes, big guy."

Thor furrowed his eyebrows, shocked out of his melancholy.

"My friends, I did this to  _protect_  Jane. I would not wish her to be grieved by this knowledge and less would I wish her to deal with such intolerance. What purpose would speaking of—"

Natasha interrupted, standing up abruptly.

"I'm gonna stop you right there, Thor. The point  _is_  you should talk to Jane and find out what  _she_  thinks about all this. You might be surprised. Dr. Foster has already been dealing with that type of prejudice for years. The sciences have always been a boys' club and many of the leading scientists make it hard for women in the profession; that didn't stop her from doing what she loves and becoming one of the top physicists in the world. And you may be right; we might still have time to consider an alternative to putting you on the throne. But if Jane's the woman I think she is, I don't think we'll have to worry about anything but getting you back into Odin's good graces."

Thor nodded hesitantly, truly considering the possibility of such a future for the first time.

"This…this bears thinking on. My thanks for your counsel, my friends."

Tony grinned widely and clapped the god on his shoulder.

"Our pleasure, Point Break. Our pleasure. Let JARVIS know if you need anything else—a ride to see your lady love, some condoms,  _whatever you need._ Now, I don't know about you guys, but I've definitely had enough politics for one day. So.  _I'm_  gonna get back to work here and I'll see  _you_  crazy kids later."

With that, Tony bundled the confused god and both agents out of his workshop, waving cheerily as the door clicked shut. Thor hovered outside the door for a moment before turning to the pair waiting by the elevator.

"Forgive me, but what are these 'condoms' the Man of Iron spoke of?"

The agents exchanged a look and played a game Thor recognized as knife, paper, stone. Clint lost two of the three games and the archer sighed as Natasha escaped into the elevator with a too-wide grin.

"So. Thor. When you Asgardians are looking for a roll in the hay without the babe what do you do?"

Thor brightened with understanding.

"Is this the purpose of these condoms? It is rare that our women are easily gotten with child, but lovers often wear spelled trinkets to ward against it."

Clint puffed his cheeks out and scratched at the back of his head.

"You use magic. Of course.  _Why_  did I expect anything different. Okay, JARVIS. I'm gonna need a banana, a condom, a copy of that STD brochure SHIELD has in their training files, and…"


	9. Compromised

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Write a story taking place during another culture's festival.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: None  
> Spoilers: None

"Okay, you can say what you want about Asgardians, but they sure know how to party."

Natasha rolled her eyes and sampled another platter of roasted meats.

"You only say that because they have an open bar policy."

Clint grinned and nudged her shoulder with his, careful not to slop his mead.

"Ah, come on Tasha. Live a little, let your hair down! We haven't been to a party like this since that time in Rio."

She smirked, eyeing the distant tangle of limbs and off-key notes that was Tony and the Warriors Three serenading the good doctor with bawdy drinking songs.

"If you're talking about that quinceañera we crashed, I seem to remember you falling into a fountain halfway through and blowing our cover."

Clint shrugged and took another gulp of mead.

"I don't see any fountains around here, do you? Besides, we were actually invited this time. No worries."

"Maybe."

The pair was silent for a while after that, just sitting back and letting the festivities wash over them. Clint found his eye drawn to the couple on the dais. Thor and Jane were stuffing honeyed fruits into each other's mouth and positively beaming with happiness.

"Do you ever wonder—"

He cut himself off and grimaced before draining the rest of his tankard.

"Clint?"

"It's nothing. Never mind."

Natasha  _looked_  at him and set her plate down before tugging him to his feet, leading him out to a column lined balcony. She dropped his hand and went to lean against one of the pillars, the bright Asgardian moon lighting her face.

"Some things just aren't meant for us, Barton."

"I know."

They stood there in silence, watching the moon sink steadily towards the horizon. Even when the happy couple said their goodbyes, they hid in the shadows. The moon was just kissing the edge of the ocean when Natasha caught his gaze again and held his eyes with her own.

"Agent Barton…I've been compromised."

His mouth dried and lips ticked upwards.

"Yeah. Me too."


	10. Echo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "Give your character a voice. Tell a story (almost) completely through dialogue."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Heavily Implied Character Death  
> Spoilers: Post Thor: DW, CA: WS

"Hello? This is Agent Barton; do you copy?"

"Here. What do you need?"

"I've been made."

"Got it. En route to extraction point—is that an alarm?"

"Don't worry about it. My contact and I are almost done here."

"…Roger. Be careful."

"When am I not?"

 _Click_.

"Hello? This is Agent Barton; do you copy?"

"Here. What do you need?"

"I've been made."

"Got it. En route to extraction point—is that an alarm?"

"Don't worry about it. My contact and I are almost done here."

"…Roger. Be careful."

"When am I not?"

 _Click_.

"Hello? This is Agent Barton; do you copy?"

"Here. What do you need?"

"I've been made."

 _Click_.

"I've been made."

 _Click_.

"I've been made."

 _Click_.

"Natasha? Are you down here? The memorial is tomorrow and we need to—Oh. I didn't-. Are you okay?"

"I'm fine."

 _Click_.

"Hello? This is Agent Barton; do you copy?"

"Here. What do you need?"

"I've been made."

"Got it. En route to extraction point—is that an alarm?"

"Don't worry about it. My contact and I are almost done here."

"…Roger. Be careful."

"When am I not?"

 _Click_.

"When am I not?"

 _Click_.

"When am I not?"

 _Click_.


	11. Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Getting home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Past Major Character Death; Mention of Suicide, Depression  
> Spoilers: Post CA: TWS, Thor: DW

He'd thought the advances they'd made in forty years were amazing—once he might have called them miraculous. But even the shock and awe he felt waking in the 21st century didn't compare to his never-ending wonder as the years went by and humanity evolved before his very eyes. And still the giddy feeling in his chest when flying cars became a reality (Howard would have been  _so_  proud) couldn't completely banish the hollow ache in his chest at the thought of  _home_ .

The future—maybe he should be used to calling it something else by now, but he just couldn't bring himself to leave behind the days of fairs and friends that were long gone and this strange place he called the future could never  _be_  home.

Once upon a time he'd thought that maybe, just maybe, he could have a life in this strange new world. That he could have a real family, that he could find new friends and comrades-in-arms and grow old with them and be  _happy_.

He should've known better.

One by one they'd all left him behind. Banner had snuck away in the night, radiation poisoning finally catching up with him. Barton, he got just a little too close to the wrong person during a mission that went so bad so fast that Steve  _still_  had trouble sleeping. After Pepper lost her long fight with cancer—well, Tony got low and joined her the same night before anyone else realized she was gone. Sam got out and Steve was  _so glad,_  but he didn't dare to so much as  _talk_  to him anymore. And with trouble always brewing in other realms and Jane safe in Asgard…there wasn't much call for gods on Earth anymore.

But Natasha and Bucky were still out on the frontlines and there were new heroes, of course. Young supers and mutants all too eager to throw themselves on the line and live up to the legend of the Avengers and the X-Men and G-d he felt so  _old_.

And wasn't that a funny thing. He didn't look a day over thirty and he was over a hundred years old. Steve Rogers, the asthmatic artist from Brooklyn. The kid that wasn't supposed to ever get out of diapers, the runt that doctors were convinced would die "any day now, he's lucky to have made it this long." And if that wasn't proof that G-d had a sense of humor, he didn't know what was.

So he spent his days looking after the younger, newer models. Spent them watching out for Natasha and Bucky because they were the only ones left and they didn't really need it, but old soldiers like them were supposed to stick together and he owed them.

But he couldn't help but wonder when that day would come. The day he'd finally go  _home_.


	12. Ye Olde Hope

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "The energy of passions and obsessions; You become what you think about all day long."
> 
> Inspired in part by "Tear Out My Tongue/Ye Olde Hope" by Florence + the Machine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spoilers: Post Avengers.
> 
> Warnings: Mental Imbalance, Mention of Torture, Thoughts of Assisted Suicide (sort of)

The God of Mischief threw back his head and laughed in the face of his would-be tormentors, crimson dripping from his mouth and the gouges so great in number that he'd quite lost count. It mattered little that they'd been quick to take his tongue. His vocalizations still served well enough to annoy his captors.

But he had no illusion that he'd keep even that small comfort for much longer. As inept as they were at torture, as imbecilic as these  _honorable_  Aesir were, even  _they_  might be driven to a breaking point; his goal, of course. He had no wish to live out his days in this contemptible prison, healing old wounds and regrowing limbs only to suffer the same indignities again and again, century after century.

And what purpose apologies for a crime he felt no guilt at committing? What purpose apologies for a crime not of his choosing, not of his making, a crime that was never and would never be his and his alone? What purpose apologies never accepted and words never heard?

None.

So the Father of Chaos laughed, the glint of madness in his eye.

Soon.

 _Soon_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for getting off schedule. I'll post two chapters today to make up for it.


	13. Victory in Defeat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "Lights, Camera, Action. Write an action scene."
> 
> Inspired in part by "This is Gospel" by Panic! At The Disco

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spoilers: Post Avengers- AU  
> Warnings: Mental Imbalance, Mention of Torture, Extreme Violence, Suicidal Ideation

The Father of Chaos paused in his good work, eyes glazed as they swept across the charnel house his prison had become. Pieces of  _their_  bodies—not  _his_ , no, not  _this_  time— littered the floor. They'd grown careless indeed; they thought him beaten in truth, thought him hopeless and pliant and  _weak_.

Fools.

True that he longed for an end, an end denied him so many times before—and he would have it by any means necessary—but Death would not accept him until he sent an offering to her,  _this_  he knew. So he'd spent long days deciding who would most please the Lady Death. The answer was  _delicious_.

Who better to send in greeting than those who served her so willingly? The Lady was ever fickle. Surely such an irony would tickle her fancy and sway her to open her arms—even to one as wretched as he.

And so began the birth of an idea, a new obsession to haunt his waking moments. He'd waited patiently for his chance, had lulled his keepers into complacency, fooled them all into thinking that Loki, God of Mischief and Father of Monsters, was beaten and broken; their last mistake.

He kicked away the shackles that once bound all but his innate healing abilities—though they'd slowed even that most simple of magics—and wet his fingers in the blood of the Aesir who had been  _kind_  enough to remove them. Eyes distant and flags of fever high in the hollow of his cheeks, Loki traced the runes on the walls of his cell, the blood of his keeper confusing the wards enough to let him pass. It was…satisfying. He curled his fingers inward, sucked in a lungful of air, and closed his eyes, his magic building and building and  _building_  until he felt he could burst with it.

 _Glorious_.

Loki exhaled in a rush, power blooming in full just as the first clatterings of the guards reached his ears. His lips curled into a razor's grin and he laughed as he let the spell take hold. A blink and he teetered on the edge of the Bifrost, Heimdall just steps away. His laughter ebbed, voice distant.

"What troubles you, Gatekeeper?"

"You know well, Loki."

Eyes unfocused, he looked past the Watcher's shoulder and nodded ponderously.

"Then know this: I bear a message for Odin All-Father. Tell him… tell him that I go to do what he could not. What he should have done centuries ago in the temple of ice. Tell him  _that_."

And before he could think better, Loki pitched himself into the Void, spinning magic as he fell so far, so far... Even so—this fall was  _different_. He did not wait curled into himself like a suckling torn from its mother as he had once. The Chitauri did not find him quivering with fear and hurt and  _need_. No. Loki did not  _fall_.

He  _flew_.

He knew the moment he passed between the asteroid belts and entered the Beyond, the place where even the stars seemed to stand still and the Lord Thanos ruled all. He slowed his movements and shuddered as he set foot on the Chitauri home world for the first time in many, many years. Home in truth only to the upper echelon of the Chitauri armies, the husk of a world was shrouded with thick fear and cloying death in a way that only served to sharpen his mind and whet his appetite.

The Other was here.

Glassy eyes darkened as his form swelled. Horns and extra limbs sprouted, doubling in thickness as plated scales took the place of tender skin. He lumbered forward as the transformation completed, all six legs tearing at the ground to move him closer, closer,  _closer_  to the Other.

The form of the bilgesnipe was much bulkier than his usual shape, but Loki had donned its likeness in the past. It was…good to wear its skin, to have power equal to Thor and teeth and claws and  _Norns_  he'd forgotten what it felt like to  _run._

He blared his intentions and sped towards the encampment ahead. He could see the Chitauri scrambling from tent to tent to arm themselves and how he laughed. Not so very long ago  _Thor_  would have been the one charging against unnumbered foes with little thought of failure and  _oh_  how the tables had turned. But, he conceded, the only way  _he_  could fail was to  _live._  There was more chance of the All-Father appearing in the heavens to beg his forgiveness than  _that_.

But now he was barreling through the camp and all time for thought was lost.

The Chitauri swarmed around him, brandishing their spears and guns, threatening and screaming in a language that was all  _hiss-click-croaks_  and attitude. Loki cared not. He lowered his head with a bellow, the swollen knot of his magic pressing uncomfortably against his breastbone—it was always so when he wore a form that did not possess the capacity of magic on its own, but it was not a  _pleasant_  sensation. Warriors assaulted him from all sides, and though his thick hide turned aside all but the strongest strikes, Loki's displeasure grew. Every soldier that got close enough to harm him soon learned that bilgesnipe—especially those that were gods in disguise—were not easy prey.

Many a Chitauri warrior was trampled, bitten, tossed aside. Loki made no special effort to end them despite his annoyance. He focused instead on simply  _removing_  any who stood between he and the Other's dwelling in the center of the camp.

Then a spearhead broke off in his flesh and Loki decided he'd had  _enough_. The souls of Chitauri foot soldiers might not impress the Lady, but killing them would improve  _his_  mood greatly. He loosed a layer of magic and forced it through the surrounding air, knocking down all those within fifteen feet of him and collapsing a few tents besides.

As soon as the casting was complete, Loki was abruptly reminded why he avoided utilizing magic in forms not suited to spell work. Head pounding and heart thundering, Loki strained to regain his Aesir form. As the Chitauri struggled to regain their footing—those that weren't dead of burst hearts or climbing over their downed brethren— the god fully regained his chosen shape and spun a warding for protection.

No sooner had he completed the bubble-like shield than the Other appeared. With a shout of triumph, Loki sprinted towards the wraith, summoning his equipment from the pocket between worlds he'd claimed as his own. Light rippled over his body and left leathers and gilded plate mail in its stead. Another flash of light and he clutched the staff given to him by Frigga when he first began to learn the art of  _seidr_. So precious a gift had never seen battle; fitting that its first should be his last.

When Loki was but ten yards away, the Other made a cutting gesture and the warding split. Loki screamed with rage, but stumbled to a stop, eyes glued to his former handler and chest heaving as his core reeled, doing all in its power to stabilize. The Other hissed and circled the god slowly, carelessly motioning for the Chitauri to maintain their distance.

"The Trickster returns.  _Disgraceful_. Have you come to beg for mercy, little god? You will find none here. Your nights will always belong to the Lord of the Shadows and you will ever long for something as sweet as pain."

Loki's lips twisted upwards in a parody of a smile, all sharp edges and wolfish intensity below wild eyes.

"Mercy? Perhaps I do seek it, but not from  _you_. No, I come seeking a different reward— I think your head will do quite nicely!"

The god darted forwards and swung the gnarled staff with a snarl, sending a wave of magic through amplifying crystals and outwards. The percussive blow forced back the Other's hood, revealing too large eyes that were almost insectoid in nature, and Loki wasted no time in targeting the ghastly, bulging things. He thought of the lights bright enough to burn and breathed them into existence—heedless of his dwindling stores of magic, he shaped the light-streams into daggers and flung them at his foe.

The Other  _twisted_  and plucked the daggers from the air, hissing as they burnt skin and sight but largely unharmed. In retaliation, he spat upon them and flung them back at the god, too swiftly, too  _forcefully_  for Loki to do aught but scream as a dagger of his own creation—soiled now by the tainted saliva of a monstrosity—slipped past his defenses to bite into his chest, its passing marked by melted mail and the smell of roasted flesh.

The Other cackled and summoned his own weapon—an achingly familiar spear. The spear's head was double-edged and jagged, the haft thick and warped, the entirety cloaked by an energy so malevolent that Loki had to bite back another scream, had to remind himself that in this moment he had the means to fight back, that he was  _Loki_  and  _he would not bow again_.

They threw themselves at one another, the lurid green of Loki's energies lashing out against the consuming indigo of the Other's strange workings. The Chitauri gibbered and howled as the two masters of  _seidr_  wove castings and counters as fast as thought.

Sweat beaded on Loki's brow and already he gaped for breath, knowing with a certainty that settled in his bones that his magic waned, that toxins overcame him from within while the Other was largely untouched, only toying— _toying_ —with Loki as would a cat with a mouse.

Then Loki knew a fury unequal to any he had known before.

Not the persistent burn of jealousy, this. Not the sharp twisting born of betrayals. Not even the consuming hatred of himself, of the Jotnar, of all in the Nine Realms who stood against him compared to  _this_.

It was not a fearsome, towering thing. Not a thing to be communicated with shouts and grand gestures. This had the weight of mountains behind it—solid and cold and filled with the knowledge that this, at least, would last until the end of days. It was stillness and power and  _conviction_.

Loki Liesmith, Silvertongue, Skywalker, Trickster, God of Mischief, Father of Chaos, and Prince Among Monsters would not be denied. He would not be captured and  _played_  with, would not submit to a half-life lived on a barren planet ruled by the lone survivor of a cruel breed. He would  _not_.

And with a manic grin—Loki let go.

The shifting spell he'd held so tightly to unwound and for the first time in  _centuries_  he felt  _free_. With a shout of laughter, Loki reached for reserves that even he had not realized existed and drew the remaining heat from the air. The Other chittered with anger, scrabbling for purchase on the iced ground, his superior speed turned against him at last. It  _hurt,_ but Loki was beyond care; he swallowed the last vestiges of warmth and let the frost thicken on his hide, hands twisting in the complex pattern required to retrieve the Casket. By the time the Casket of Ancient Winters fully manifested, the Other had regained his feet and was furiously weaving a counter—a working of heat and light and burning things.

It mattered not.

Loki tore open the Casket and roared in triumph. A blast of penetrating cold solidified the very air, freezing his foes to their core and chilling his lungs—an event that shocked him into dropping the artifact. His mind raced. The Chitauri, he knew, were beyond help now, but the Other—though completely encased in ice a hand-span thick—would not be held for long. All magics could be countered given time as Heimdall had reminded him with his betrayal, even so great a magic as the Casket. He did not intend to allow the Other a chance to learn so.

Despite the rumblings of a coming storm and the still raging Casket lying forgotten on the planet's surface, Loki feverishly rattled off the most powerful earth-moving spell he knew. Chest heaving and limbs shaking, he ripped up a mass of rock the size of a horse and hurled it into the Other with the very dregs of his magic.

Ice and rock alike shattered with a deafening crack.

 _Victory_.

Thunder seemed to shake the world and Loki collapsed, curling inwards as he gasped for breath with hands pressed against melted mail and the wound he knew would be his undoing. It no longer bled, but he could feel it festering beneath his skin, poison winding through his veins. With his magic expended and all those foolish enough to think to save him realms away, alone on an alien world but for the corpses of his enemies and the knowledge that he'd won at last—Loki cried.


	14. Bonus Drabbles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Could have sworn that I'd already uploaded all of these. Oh well. Here we are, then. These are the last things I currently have prepared, 10 bonus music drabbles for your pleasure. These were all written in the space of the song listed, chosen at random. Enjoy.

**Bonus 1** —America by Imagine Dragons

Steve never really knew what to do with himself anymore. Everything was so different and there was so much he'd missed.

The 70s.

The Star Wars—whatever they were.

Dancing.

He'd been trying to catch up on everything, trying to bridge the gap 70 years created, trying to chase down the American dream for the past month, racing the wind on his bike and stopping in at every mom and pop shop for a chance to feel at home.

It never lasted.

* * *

 

 **Bonus 2** —Eet by Regina Spektor

Tony never thought he'd outlive—anyone, really.

It was strange to be the last one left.

Clint and Tasha during that mission in Tanzania that went so very wrong so very quickly.

Steve, saving an entire school bus when—

And Thor, downed in a fight against his insane brother.

The only thing that kept him sane was knowing he wouldn't be far behind.

* * *

 

 **Bonus 3** —Best Day of My Life by American Authors

Bruce hadn't had a place to call home in what felt like forever. It was strange to think that now he had more house, more money, more  _stuff_  than he knew what to do with.

Candy Land, perhaps.

But secretly he thought the best thing about having such a big house was the enormous family that came with it.

* * *

 

 **Bonus 4** —Porcelain by Helen Jane Long

They always commented on the porcelain of her skin. China doll, they called her. Precious little Tasha, with big eyes and soft words and curves in all the right places.

Once she'd believed them. Once she'd been proud of her looks, of being the briar rose amongst the snow from the fairy tales. She knew better now.

Now she knows she is made of thorns and she is enticing and strong and she will do anything to protect herself.

But it is nice to know that sometimes she doesn't have to.

That  _they_  will do that for her.

* * *

 

 **Bonus 5** —When You Were Young by The Killers

Sitting in his cell, he remembers a simpler time.

A time when the love between them was simple and they were convinced that nothing could ever come between them.

Night and day, the sons of Odin. But one could not exist without the other and he'd forgotten that far too easily.

_Love is for children._

He cannot help but agree.

* * *

 

 **Bonus 6** —For the Love of A Princess by Myleene Klass

With so much happening at once, Tony'd never been able to figure out just what had been going through his own mind. What had convinced him to lay down on the wire instead of cutting it. All he could think was

Coulson. Loki. Chitauri. Missle. Pepper.

 _Pepper_.

In the end it always came down to Pepper because in the end she was always the answer.

Protect Pepper. Love Pepper. Say Goodbye to Pepper.

Just

Pepper.

* * *

 

 **Bonus 7** —Closer to Love by Mat Kearney

She couldn't remember the last time she'd knelt to pray.

He just didn't know how.

The Hawk and the Widow, so bound up in each other, so tangled that the times they were apart, when events conspired and their nights were breathless, sweating, nightmarish torture—even then they would find a moment to do things they'd never done before. A breath of a prayer sent to someone they weren't sure was listening for someone they both knew didn't deserve it.

But that's what partners were for.

* * *

 

 **Bonus 8** —Christofori's Dream

Clint tried not to give in. Really, he did.

It wasn't his fault that the Tesseract was so very powerful. Not his fault that Loki had the power to bend minds to his will. Not his fault that he killed his coworkers and friends and innocents and—

He couldn't breathe.

Waking up from that, realizing what—

He couldn't describe the gut-wrenching feeling and he knew, he  _knew_  that it wasn't his fault. That Loki was responsible for everything and it was so completely and utterly out of his control.

That didn't stop the nightmares.

She knew that. And G-d, did he love her for that.

For knowing and staying anyways. For the whispered consolations and reminders and the lifelines she threw him. For the everything.

He thinks that in a different life he might have married her.

* * *

 

 **Bonus 9** —Everyone's Totally Insane by The Dandy Warhols

He can't remember the last time he felt the sun on his face or the kiss of wind against his skin and staying here is so much like the Void that some nights he forgets he can breathe. It doesn't make sense. He knows this.

He doesn't care.

He spends his days

Watching and waiting and laughing at the world.

Sometimes he imagines that Odinson will come and that he will speak pleasantries about the Court and the Warriors Three and treaties and wars and love and sometimes Loki can convince himself that he is really there.

He knows it is all a lie.

He doesn't care.

* * *

 

 **Bonus 10** —The Legend of Zelda Suite, For Orchestra

The wedding is a grand affair. There are feasts for days on end and all of Asgard is invited, along with their many acquaintances from Midgard. Thor is flushed and happy and Jane hasn't seen him smile so brightly since  _before_.

They marry under the same stars that Frigga loved and Loki walked and somehow everything seems right. She eats her first apple and Darcy scandalizes half of Asgard and it is wonderful.


	15. Mayday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: 40 minute limit; "Mayday, Mayday."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long time, no see. This is the first posted one-shot from this year's Story a Day May challenge. (Yes, I'm behind. Shush.) This year, only a few of the fics written for this challenge fit into the Avengers/MCU category. The one-shots that fit into other fandoms (mostly Star Trek 2009) will be posted in a separate work, but included in my SaD May series here on AO3.  
> Hope you enjoy.

The cabin shook violently, the controls rattling apart in his hands as the water rushed up to meet them. His teammates yelled and clutched at anything they could reach, life vests already fastened and inflated.

"Mayday, mayday, we are going down! Do you copy? I repeat, we are going down!"

"Copy that, Captain! We've marked your location with a beacon. Agents are in route; stay as close to the wreckage as possible."

"Roger."

Heart in his throat, Steve dropped the controls and yanked at his harness.

Stuck.

His blood ran cold. He scrabbled at the contraption, pulling against it with all his strength, panic whiting out all other thought. He thought Tony was screaming his name, but G-d, the ocean—

They hit the water dead on.

Steve had forgotten how deafening the slam of water against metal and glass was. His eardrums popped and he blacked out for an instant as the ocean forced its way into the cabin, slapping the air from his chest. All the lights in the cockpit shone an eerie red and J-sus, it was even worse the second time.

But it was different this time, wasn't it? He was in the Pacific, too far south to freeze solid. There would be no waking up from this. His lungs ached; his air was gone. He twisted in his seat far enough to see the others, praying that they, at least, could get out _._

He caught sight of Natasha, just as she was pushing through the emergency hatch, dragging Tony behind her like a broken doll. Clint was forcing his way to the front of the plane, just a few feet away now.

Clint was coming. Clint could help.

Steve clenched his eyes shut and twisted forward again, still pulling at the harness. Another hand slapped his away and he opened his eyes to see Clint brandishing a pocketknife. Steve grimaced and moved his hands, watching Clint saw at the thick harness with rapidly dimming vision. Unable to stand it anymore, he swallowed a lungful of saltwater just as the first strap popped free. He convulsed, choking and sputtering as Clint sawed at the remaining strap. Clint jerked him out of the pilot's chair, but he was too far gone to help, vision blurring. He revived for a moment when Clint shook him, his limbs flailing for purchase, but his strength drained away as quickly as it had come. His vision went dark and he could only think—

_I've got no plans tomorrow night._


	16. Story Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Write a story inspired by family folklore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: I took this prompt pretty loosely. The actual story was that one of my ancestors was sweet on a girl up North. Her brothers didn't take too kindly to him and tried to drive him off. My ancestor ended up killing one of the brothers. Well, that really ticked off the other brothers, so they got the law involved. Story goes, he managed to skip town by hiding himself in a pickle barrel and floating down the Mississippi River. When he got out down South, he changed his name to 'Ford,' and it's been our name ever since.
> 
> This story isn't so dramatic as that, especially as I had to change up a few things last minute, but I hope you enjoy it all the same.

 

"And that's why I'm not allowed in the Donut Shoppe anymore."

Tony took a swig of coffee as the rest of the team chuckled. He gestured at Clint with his mug when the laughter died down.

"What about you, Cupid; what's the weirdest escape route you've ever taken?"

Clint grunted and popped another handful of trail mix into his mouth.

"You probably wouldn't believe me if I told you."

Natasha hummed in agreement from her place on the floor tangled up with Bucky, Steve, and Sam. She'd been trapped when Steve and Bucky had fallen asleep together and seemed content to stay put for the moment.

"He's right. We rarely have extraction plans, so things can get… interesting when we make our exit."

"So it'll make for a great story," Tony grinned. "Come on, spill."

"Alright, alright," Clint groaned. "Weirdest escape, yeah? Let me think. I guess there was that one time in Missouri…" He leaned forward, elbows on his knees.

"So, ten years ago, back when I was doing solo work, I did a job in St. Louis. It was small time, mostly infiltrating rogue groups that were trying to buck the system and passing names of the major players to my employer. Everything was fine until one of the other snitches got in hot water and ratted me out to save their skin."

"How did you find out?" Bruce interrupted.

"Well Brucie, when people are trying to shoot you that usually means they're not your friends."

" _Usually_ ," Natasha added with a grin. "Sometimes it means they  _are_  your friends and just don't know it yet."

Bruce blushed and busied himself with stirring his tea.

"I meant, how did you find out how they found out about you?" The tips of his ears pinked more noticeably, and Sam patted his leg sympathetically as the others chuckled.

"Don't worry about it, man. I get tongue-tied around these weirdos all the time."

Clint scratched at the back of his neck with another laugh.

"To be honest, Bruce, I just kind of assumed that's what happened. I didn't really have time to knock heads until I found out for sure, but I don't remember screwing myself over. Not on that job, anyway." Clint shrugged. "At this point it doesn't really matter. They found out and I had to scram or get my head beat in. The problem was, they had rats watching all the exits—except one. Mostly because they didn't think I'd be dumb enough to take it."

"St. Louis is a port town, but the Mississip' isn't anyone's choice for a quick getaway. It's mostly trash barges, cargo ships, and cruisers. The night I was lookin' to skip town, my only real choice was to hide out in a shipping container and hope I could bust my way past whoever opened it up down the river. It took me ages to find any that weren't locked up or guarded too heavily to squeeze past on such short notice. And the few that I could get to either weren't slated for delivery or were filled with crap; nothing you'd want to be locked in with for a few days, at any rate. Eventually, I found this crate of produce to hitch a ride in. Just in time, too. Apparently, the rats had finally realized that I actually was stupid enough to try the river. I'd just managed to hunker down between two crates of peaches when they busted in, scanned the crate and moved on. I stayed put the rest of the night, just in case they came back. Next morning, the port crew locked the crate down and loaded us up on a barge."

"Things were pretty boring after that. I spent two days in pitch black with a bunch of fruit for company before they finally unloaded. Almost got crushed by a crate in the process, but I made it out okay. It definitely wasn't the most dignified exit I've made, and I'm still sick of peaches, but win some, lose some."

"That's nothing," Natasha broke in as she finished tying off another braid for Bucky. "Remember the time I got busted in Norway?"

Clint shuddered.

"Ugh. I still can't believe you did that. I mean, I  _can_ , but G-d,  _why did you do that?"_

Tony poured himself another generous cup of coffee.

"Well, Romanov? Don't make us wait all night."

The ex-Russian smirked and pushed herself tighter against Steve's side, reveling in his warmth and the others' blatant curiosity.

"It all started when Coulson sent me to infiltrate an AIM base in Voss."


	17. The Diplomatic Solution

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: 640 Word Limit
> 
> Warning: May be kind of squicky in a gross food sort of way.
> 
> AN: Sorry I'm posting later than intended. There was a death in the family, and some other rather upsetting personal happenings. Still, I hope you enjoy.

 

The banquet was in full swing. Representatives from every realm were present, the music was lively, and the guests were... colorful, to say the least. Bruce had tucked himself into a corner, despite Tony's best efforts to the contrary, and was enjoying a quiet, but thoroughly engaging conversation with Dr. Foster. She had fascinating insight into much of Asgard's technology, especially her pet project, the Einstein-Rosen bridge. As the night wore on, other revellers drifted into their corner; many left as quickly as they came, but a few, like Natasha and Clint, settled in to stay. In fact, after they took a seat and began inhaling their food, the little group of stragglers soon became a crowd. Bruce didn't actually notice until Dr. Foster trailed off, watching the two agents along with everyone else.

"What is that?" she asked warily.

Clint shrugged as Natasha slurped down another mouthful.

"I dunno, but it's pretty good I guess."

Dr. Foster cringed as Clint dropped a handful of wriggling somethings into his mouth and swallowed without chewing. Bruce propped his chin on his hand.

"Your dinner's still moving," he commented mildly.

"That's how you know it's fresh," Natasha deadpanned.

"Are you sure you're supposed to be eating that?"

"We actually couldn't read the labels, so we just kind of grabbed something and left. But we've eaten worse, believe me."

Dr. Foster shuddered and excused herself, leaving Bruce to deal with the agents and aliens on his own.

"You sure you're not eating someone's pet?"

"No," Natasha said with a wolfish grin. "But do you see anyone complaining?"

"Fair enough."

They sat in relative silence until a representative from Vanaheim edged forward, plumage ruffled and eyes uncertain.

"You eat  _okotoukka_?"

Clint glanced from the empty plate to the group of spectators and back.

"Yes?"

The Vanir retreated, chattering rapidly to their fellow ambassadors. After consulting for a few moments, they hopped forward, fanning out their crest.

"Your people eat this or only you?"

The trio exchanged glances. Clint lost the unspoken argument and cleared his throat before replying.

"I don't actually know; we don't have this... species on our world. We have something similar, but only a few of our people choose to eat them. Why?"

The Vanir tilted their head and blinked, considering.

"You know what they are, yes?"

"Uh," Clint squinted at the now empty plate before shrugging. "Protein?"

"They are..." the Vanir paused and conferred with their fellows. "We do not know the word in All-Speak. There are many in our realm; they create only problems. But if your people eat, we help each other, yes?"

Natasha smiled politely.

"You said they create problems for your people; what sort, and how did they get to Asgard if they are found on your realm?"

They clicked their tongue, preening as they thought.

"They are many; it is a known problem. They travel with us and eat until we are rid of them."

Natasha frowned faintly.

"They eat-- crops? Your clothes?"

The Vanir shook their head.

"They eat our-- us, the life-blood, you understand?"

Clint paled and moaned faintly as Bruce straightened with a jolt and Natasha closed her eyes deliberately.

"Just to be clear," Bruce began. "My friends ate your parasites?"

The Vanir whistled in satisfaction.

"Yes, parasites, that is the word."

"Oh my G-d," Clint whispered. "Oh my G-d, does that make us cannibals?"

Natasha grabbed Clint and a fistful of napkins before storming off in the direction of the bathrooms.

Bruce cleared his throat.

"I'm sorry to ask, but would you happen to have more with you?"

The Vanir whistled brightly. "Then you accept our offer?"

"I'm afraid not. I actually need to run some tests on them to make sure my friends don't die."

Bruce sighed as they blanched and started chattering amongst themselves. So much for his vacation.


	18. Lists

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Lists
> 
> Warning: Implied major character death

 

_Recovered from Stark Industries database, personal memorandum of affiliated personnel. A. E. Stark to JARVIS._

· Debriefing

· Dry clean suit

· Call Aunt Peggy

· Arrange catering

· Order flowers and flags

· Have shield polished

* * *

_From the desk of Sharon Carter, Alias Agent 13._

To Do:

· Iron dress uniform

· Pick up Aunt Peggy

· Retrieve shield

· Cancel fondue reservation

· Try not to cry

~~· Be a good~~

~~· Be Capt~~

·  **Make him proud.**

* * *

_Retrieved from partially burned journal. Alias: Angry Eyes._

· Contact Phil

· Get back to NY

· Write speech

· Burn the –


	19. A Lie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: 100 word limit.  
> Hinted AoU spoiler.

What softness she’d had was long burned away. A necessity in her line of work. Little room for mercy, forgiveness, love when your mind was a weapon and your body a commodity to be bartered with, all sharp edges beneath a pouting mask.

It was better this way, she reasoned when SHIELD fell and Fury with it. While Steve buckled under Bucky’s ghost, Clint was stretched thin between two lives, and Bruce dissolved into a distant perhaps for fear of a monster beneath his skin. She branded her soul with these truths:

Love was for children.

She didn’t miss it.


	20. A Memory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Write a story about the impact of art; Something money can’t buy.

When he gets his first sketchbook, he is seven and dying.

His father passed the year before and his mother is at wit’s end. Earlier this year, he’d tried to hide the longing in his eyes when they pass the thick paper and pencil sets displayed in the printer’s window. Mam saw anyhow and he hears her crying at night sometimes because there is never enough for food, never mind fancy paper. Now it is deep into winter and Christmas is only a week away.

Mam burns the candle at both ends, nursing him through the hacking coughs that collapse his chest and the terrible fever that sucks him dry in between washing and mending and sewing clothes for their neighbors at a nickel a piece. He knows there is no money for a doctor, nothing for a present under the tree, and, secretly, he thinks he may not live to see Christmas morning even if there were.

At the stroke of midnight on Christmas day, Mam wakes him up from a restless sleep and gives him a package wrapped in newspaper and twine.

Inside is a dollar sketchbook and a dime set of pencils. He cries and so does Mam. They stay up until the sun rises, taking turns drawing on the first page. They fill every corner with stars and snowflakes and flowers and wishes until the page is black and one sketch can’t end before the next begins.

His fever breaks an hour later and they laugh until they cry.


End file.
